Chapter 5 - The Glass of Whiskey
By 2:15 a.m., the guest room was completely restored to its original, horrific state—with a few vital modifications.
I had smoothed out the paper-thin hospital blanket over the mattress, stuffing two heavy wool pillows beneath the fabric to create the distinct silhouette of a sleeping, frail old man in the dim light. I placed the cold, congealed bowl of soup back on the nightstand, along with the half-empty cup of dusty water.
Behind the wardrobe, I replaced the digital recorder with a secondary, miniature unit that streamed directly to an encrypted cloud server managed by Maya’s IT team. If Julian or Victoria entered the room to check on their prisoner, every word they spoke would be broadcast live to a secure server in Hartford.
I left the manila folder containing the forged documents in the gap—except I had removed the original signed pages, replacing them with high-resolution color facsimiles I had printed in my home office. The originals were now safely stored inside my handbag.
Finally, I pulled the heavy oak door shut, reinstalled the yellow padlock, wedged the upside-down dining chair back under the knob, and stepped back into the main living room.
I didn't turn on the overhead lights. I sat in the dark on the leather sofa near the front window, holding a glass of cold water in my hands, watching the quiet street.
At 3:42 a.m., twin beams of headlights cut through the darkness outside.
A sleek, black BMW 7-Series pulled smoothly into the driveway. The engine cut off, and two figures emerged into the cool night air.
Julian was wearing his tailored charcoal suit, his jacket unbuttoned, his tie slightly loosened at the collar. Beside him was his mother, Victoria—a tall, painfully thin woman in her late fifties with sharp, angular features, wearing a dark mink coat despite the mild spring weather. She was laughing softly, a sound like dry leaves scraping over concrete.
I sat motionless in the dark, watching them through the sheer curtains.
The front door unlocked with a soft electronic chime. They stepped into the foyer, bringing with them the heavy smell of expensive steakhouse dinners, red wine, and fine cigars.
"Make sure the door is locked, Julian," Victoria whispered, her voice carrying easily into the dark living room. "We don't want any unexpected visitors from the neighborhood."
"It's locked, Mom," Julian replied, setting his leather briefcase on the entryway table. "Elena’s flight doesn't land until 2:30 tomorrow afternoon. We have twelve hours to finalize the secondary wire transfers before she even sets foot in the state."
"And the old man?" Victoria asked, her voice entirely devoid of warmth. "Did you give him the full dose before we left?"
"Two vials in the broth," Julian said casually, walking toward the wet bar. "He was out cold by seven. By the time Elena opens that door tomorrow, he'll be so deep in a coma the paramedics won't even be able to get a pulse statement."
He reached for the crystal whisky decanter on the bar, poured two fingers into a glass, and turned around.
I switched on the small table lamp beside the sofa.
The sudden, warm yellow light illuminated the room.
Julian froze mid-sip. The crystal glass slipped an inch in his hand, whiskey sloshing over the rim and dripping onto his leather shoes.
Victoria let out a sharp, strangling gasp, her hand flying to her throat as she backed up two full steps against the entryway mirror.
"Elena!" Julian choked out, his eyes wide with absolute, naked shock. "What... what are you doing here? Your flight... your flight wasn't supposed to land until tomorrow!"
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I sat comfortably on the sofa, leaning back against the cushions, holding my glass of water. I offered them a calm, pleasant, perfectly measured smile.
"I caught an earlier connection out of O'Hare, darling," I said softly, my voice smooth and relaxed. "I wanted to surprise you."
